


Fancy Dress

by placentalmammal



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Clothed Sex, Crossdressing Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Ghouls, M/M, Sexual Roleplay, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 01:52:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5893570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/placentalmammal/pseuds/placentalmammal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Survivor finds a selection of 18th century dresses, he decides to plan a surprise for his ghoul boyfriend. Originally posted on the <a href="http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/6855.html?thread=18090951#t18090951">Fallout Kink Meme.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Fancy Dress

**Author's Note:**

> I used a few references to describe Carl's clothes, [1](https://historicromance.wordpress.com/2008/08/18/underwear-in-the-18th-century/) and [2](http://www.history.org/history/clothing/women/anatomy.cfm).

The shift was simple: plain white cotton, yellowed from age, cut like an oversized t-shirt. Carl slipped it over his head, tugged it into place, and found the hem fell to midthigh, just barely covering his hips and buttocks. The stockings were next, some unidentifiable 450-year-old fiber, wool or silk. He secured them at his knees with a length of pink ribbon. He paused for a moment to admire his reflection in his salvaged, full-length mirror. He liked the contrast of the white shift against his dark skin, liked the way the stockings emphasized his muscular legs.

(He put his practical boots on over his stockings--there hadn’t been a pair of slippers large enough to fit his feet, and he didn’t want to ruin antique shoes by wearing them through the muck and grime. The boots were all wrong with his dress, but Carl’s inner romantic was forced to concede the point to his outer pragmatist.)

His chosen petticoat was made of a thicker material that had been blue or grey, once upon a time. Centuries earlier, someone had embroidered the cloth with a lively pattern of birds and twining vines. The colorful threads had long-since faded to a uniform brown, but the outlines of flora and fauna remained distinct; dark, solid shapes against a field of grey. He held it up to the light, running his hands over the fabric and admiring the workmanship before he stepped into the skirt and pulled it up over his hips. It hung nicely and the voluminous pleats lent curves and softness his ruler-straight figure. He admired his reflection in a cracked, yellowed mirror, and he found it difficult to resist the temptation to twirl.

The next step was the trickiest. He had found, among the museum’s displays, a genuine whalebone corset. Stays were, of course, essential to a proper 18th century ensemble, but the most difficult to get on without help. Loose lips sank ships and spoiled surprises, and many of his closest friends tended towards indiscretion. Cait had been there when he found the dresses in the museum, and he’d had to buy her silence with his last pack of Fancy Lads.

Carl chewed his cuticles while he considered his options. MacCready wouldn’t get it, Piper would blab immediately, Strong would snap the whalebone, and Nick would give him that blank, judgmental stare. Preston was off on an errand, Dogmeat didn’t have thumbs, and Danse was confused enough already. Which left him with precisely one option. He crossed to the door, petticoat swishing around his ankles, and cracked the door. “Deacon?" he said. "You there?"

Mercifully, he was, and he was alone. Deacon sat on the couch, reading a magazine, his back to the bedroom door. "Yeah," he said, without looking up. "Need something?" "Um," said Carl. "Yeah. I kinda need your help with something. But first, you have to promise not to tell anyone." This piqued Deacon's interest. He set the magazine down and turned around, grinning behind his sunglasses. "Scout's honor," he said, hand over his heart. "What, you got a potato up your ass or something? Flared base, mon frere."

"No!" said Carl. "Nothing like that." He paused for consideration. "Well, actually--"

"Christ, forget it. I'm never making a joke ever again. What's up?"

"Come here.” Carl’s heart rate picked up and he shifted his weight from foot to foot, suddenly uncertain. If Deacon laughed, he'd have to kick his ass.

To his credit, Deacon did not laugh. His eyebrows shot even higher over the rims of his ever-present sunglasses. For a moment, he was silent, evidently at a loss for words. Finally, he said "huh" in a tone of voice that suggested he'd seen weirder.

Gratified, Carl held out the corset. "I've got some stays, and I can't get them on myself," he said, trying for nonchalance. "Could you do the laces for me?"  
  
Deacon accepted the undergarment without comment and settled it around Carl’s waist.. "How tight do you want it?”  
  
"Loose-ish. I’ve got a bit of a trek to Hancock’s office.”  
  
Deacon said “of course,” in a knowing tone of voice. Carl nobly resisted the urge to punch him. Instead, he closed his eyes and concentrating on staying still while Deacon fiddled with the working end of the laces, tightening the corset as he went. The other man worked silently and methodically, for once the picture of professional efficiency.  
  
When he was finished, Deacon tied a neat bow and stood back to admire his handiwork.  
  
"Thanks!” said Carl, breathless with excitement. His waist was smaller, his figure slightly more girlish--much more suited to the dress he’d chosen.

"Don't mention it," Deacon said, the very picture of stoicism. "Will you need any help with the rest of that?" He indicated the pockets, second petticoat, gown, cap, and hat laid out on the bed with a nod.  
  
Carl ushered the other man towards the door. “I’ve got it, thanks!” he said brightly. “You’ve been a huge help, thanks!”  
  
Deacon refused to be gotten rid of so easily. He lingered in the doorway for a moment, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Whatever you've got planned, have fun." He laughed, a little prematurely. "Remember: flared base. Don't lose anything up your ass."  
  
Heat rose in Carl’s cheeks, but Deacon’s irreverence startled a laugh out of him. "I'll be sure to remember that.” He edged Deacon out of the doorway with a final shove and slammed it behind him.  
  
Once again alone with his excitement, Carl hurried to finish dressing. Stays taken care of, the rest of the clothes gave him no trouble. He tied the pockets (also embroidered, though not so prettily as the first petticoat) around his now-slender waist and settled them at his hips. The second petticoat--pale green silk, daintier and more delicate than the first--went on next, slits positioned over the pockets to allow him access. Next came the gown, which was edged in ruffles and had trailing, lacy sleeves. His gown was cut a bit slim for his wide shoulders, but he reasoned that it wouldn’t rip if he didn’t flex. His stomacher was also ruffled, the backing a lovely yellow silk to contrast the green petticoat and blue gown.  
  
An 18th century gentlewoman would have completed her ensemble with a lacy kerchief, but Carl was feeling daring. He liked the look of his flat, broad chest in the gown, liked the way his chest hairs curled up over the edge of the stomacher. He admired his reflection and decided that he was quite dressed (except for his hat, of course).  
  
The hat was a conservative black, trimmed with silk roses. Carl liked the effect of the pink flowers; thought they brought out a rosy undertone in his dark skin. He tied the ribbon under his chin and tilted the hat at a daring angle, making minute adjustments until he judged it was just _so_.  
  
“Perfect,” he said, out loud to the empty room. “Absolutely perfect.”  
  
Carl threw the bedroom door open and emerged to Deacon’s tepid enthusiasm. “Ta-da!” he said, arms flung wide.  
  
“You look good,” Deacon said, glancing up from his magazine. “I like the hat.”  
  
“Thank you!” Carl said, fluttering his eyelashes. “Think he’ll like it?”  
  
“Probably. Assuming his tiny little heart doesn’t stop from excitement.” He returned his attention to the magazine in his lap. “You always think resuscitation’s going to be sexy, but it never is. Trust me.” He flipped a page. “Now get gone. Thy groom awaits thee.”  
  
“Wrong era for that quote, I think,” said Carl. “But you’re right, I need to hit the road. Thanks again for all your help.”  
  
Deacon waved him away and Carl set off, his feet scarcely touching the ground in his excitement. The dress had improved his posture and his mood, and he was feeling uncharacteristically giddy when he reached The Third Rail.  
  
Magnolia laughed when she saw him, but there was no mockery in it, no sting. “You look good, Ace. John’s upstairs.”  
  
“Thanks, Mag,” said Carl, and he dipped a curtsey. She laughed again, genuinely delighted, shaking her head as he walked towards the stairs, hips swinging and skirts swishing.  
  
Fahrenheit didn’t so much as blink when he reached the landing. “Hey Carl. He’s in there,” he said, gesturing over her shoulder with her thumb. “He’s supposed to meet some traders this afternoon, but he’ll probably end up rescheduling.”  
  
“I’ll probably do what?” Hancock’s voice drifted out through the open door. Carl took a deep breath, unable to wait any longer.  
  
Hancock had his feet up on his desk. He was hatless and half-undressed, sunken chest hanging out of his unbuttoned coat. At Carl’s entrance, he sat up, mouth falling open. “Holy shit,” he croaked.

“Hello John,” Carl said, pitching his voice a little lower than usual. “I’m Janet Snakehole. I’m a British spy with a terrible secret.”  
  
“Holy shit,” he said again. “Hey Fahrenheit,” he called. “Cancel my 3:30. Tell them something came up.”  
  
“Not your secretary,” she called back. “And close the goddamn door before you two do whatever the hell you’re planning to do. Sick of listening to your shit.” She hefted her minigun and stomped away, down the stairs and towards the bar, the very image of a woman who’d reached her upper limit.  
  
“I’ll take care of it,” Carl said. He shut the door and slid deadbolt into place, then turned back to face Hancock, who was staring with a dazed expression. “Hi, hello, how are you?”

“Great,” said Hancock distractedly. He swung his feet off his desk and leaned forward in his chair. “Where’d you get that?”  
  
“From the finest Parisian dressmakers,” said Carl. “With my spy money.”  
  
“Of course. Have you come to assassinate me?”  
  
“Yes,” said Carl. He sashayed across the room, hips swinging, and sat on the edge of Hancock’s desk. He planted one booted foot on Hancock’s chair, between his legs, his toe centimeters from his groin. The ghoul was already half-hard, the outline of his cock visible through his tight-fitting breeches.  
  
Hancock swallowed, eyes flicking from Carl’s foot to his chest. “Uh oh. I’m completely at your mercy.”  
  
Carl put his hand on Hancock’s weathered cheek. “But I’ve fallen in love with you,” he said breathlessly.  
  
“Well, that’s good news.”  
  
Carl laughed. “You’re not very good at this.”  
  
“You’re worse,” he complained. “The hell kind of name is ‘Janet Snakehole?’”  
  
“It was a bar,” said Carl. “Back when.”  
  
“Shut up and kiss me,” said Hancock. Carl complied, leaning forward to close the distance between their lips. Hancock responded enthusiastically, surging forward in his seat, but Carl held him in place with a firm hand on his shoulder. Hancock whimpered against Carl’s mouth, straining against his hold. His hand slipped under the hem of Carl’s petticoat, curling around his thigh. “You’re wearing stockings,” he moaned.  
  
“Yeah,” said Carl, panting and pushing the hat back off his forehead. “And two petticoats and stays and a shift. Couldn’t be assed with the panniers, though.”  
  
“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” said Hancock, and he kissed Carl again, clumsy with intensity, all teeth and tongue. He clutched at Carl’s leg for support, and Carl chuckled against his mouth.  
  
“Let’s get you up on the desk,” said Carl. “I wanna fuck you.” He pulled back, and Hancock practically fell out of his chair in his eagerness.  
  
Laughing, Carl swung Hancock up onto the desk, settling him on his back. He was bigger and broader than his boyfriend, stronger and much taller. Hancock was small in his arms, almost dainty. “God,” he said, running his hands along Hancock’s stringy thighs. “I like you like this.”  
  
“On my back, or hard enough to cut diamonds?”  
  
“Both,” said Carl, caressing Hancock’s length through his tight-fitting trousers. The ghoul moaned and shivered under Carl’s touch, hips lifting eagerly. Carl pulled the other man’s pants down just far enough to bare his hips, and his cock sprang free, already dripping precome. He wrapped his hand around it, sliding his foreskin back and dragging his thumb over Hancock’s slit.  
  
“Fuck! There’s lube in my desk drawer.” Hancock scrambled for a grip on the desktop, hands sliding off the smooth wood. “Hurry up!”  
  
Carl chuckled, low in his throat. He jerked Hancock a few times, drawing a chorus of curses and pleas from the smaller man, then pulled away to leave him shivering and exposed while he rooted for the lube. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Hancock tried to kick his trousers off. His breeches got caught on his shoes, tangling around his ankles, and he set to cursing when Carl returned, lube in hand. “Leave it,” he growled, and Hancock went still.  
  
He hauled Hancock’s bound legs up over his shoulders and pressed his clothed hips against Hancock’s bare ass, letting him feel his erection through all his layers of skirts. “Fuck,” he said, with a reverence he reserved for just the two of them. “ _Fuck_.”

“Get yourself ready,” Carl said, breathless, dropping the little jar of lube on Hancock’s stomach. “I gotta get my dick out from under this skirt.” He released Hancock’s legs all at once, and the ghoul nearly fell again, but he caught himself on the edge of the desk, eyes wide while Carl fumbled with his gown and petticoats, scrambling to free his cock.  
  
Carl stopped to watch when Hancock scooped out two fingers full of lubricant and went to work slicking himself up, fingers slipping inside. He groaned, fingers thrusting into himself, and added a third finger, working himself loose with remarkable efficiency. Carl was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his corset digging into his ribs. “ _Fuck_!” he said again, and he meant it a thousand ways.  
  
Hancock laughed wheezily. “Gonna get myself off before you can get out of that thing,” he said, squeezing the base of his cock while he fingered himself with his other hand.  
  
“Nope,” panted Carl, moving back in close. “Won’t let you.” He bent and kissed Hancock again, fierce, possessive. Hancock moaned, hands stilling.  
  
“Please,” he whined. “Hurry the fuck up.”  
  
Carl hiked his heavy skirts up and dropped them on the table, halfway covering Hancock’s hips. He turned the other man onto his side to get his legs out of the way. A moment of fumbling in the darkness under his voluminous skirts, and he pushed into Hancock, sliding past the tight ring of muscle without much resistance.  
  
Hancock groaned and shivered underneath Carl’s hands, inner muscles flexing and clenching to accommodate his length. “Fuck,” he said. “That’s good.”  
  
“Yeah?” said Carl, thrusting into him, balls slapping against his ass. “You like that?”  
  
“Fuck yes,” Hancock groaned. “Harder!” Carl laughed and complied, pistoned his hips against Hancock, pounding into the smaller man. Hancock writhed and moaned, unable to find the leverage to thrust back against him. His slick hand closed around his cock, and he jerked himself off while Carl fucked him.  
  
Already overstimulated and overexcited, neither of them lasted long. Hancock came first, hips rolling against his fist, ejaculate leaking out between his fingers. The shivers and moans of Hancock’s orgasm sent Carl over the edge, and he came inside him, filling him with his seed.  
  
“Fuck!”  
  
Carl pulled out carefully, mindful of the priceless, centuries-old dress. It wasn’t like he could take it down to the creek and pound the stain out with a rock. He awkwardly wiped his cock clean with the shift, reasoning that it’d be the easiest item to replace, if it came to that, then returned his attention to his boyfriend.

“How was that?” he asked, scratching at the small of Hancock’s back with blunt fingernails.  
  
“Holy shit,” he said, rolling onto his back. “Did I ever tell you that you’re the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to me?”  
  
“Yes,” said Carl, offering him a hand and helping him into a sitting position. “But I could stand to hear it again.”  
  
“You’re crazy and you’re amazing and I love you,” Hancock said, a breathless litany of praise. “That was incredible.”  
  
“Glad you liked it,” Carl said, and he kissed Hancock. Slow and lingering, all his earlier intensity drained. “Thought you might.” They kissed for a while, until Fahrenheit interrupted them with a knock on the door.  
  
“Traders are here,” she called through the closed door.  
  
Hancock groaned and Carl stifled a laugh against his throat. “I told you to tell them to fuck off!” he called.  
  
“You did,” said Fahrenheit. “And I said I wasn’t your secretary. Get your pants or skirt or whatever on. You gotta do some actual work, for once.”  
  
Hancock grumbled about _ingrates_ and _lousy attitudes_ while he straightened his frock coat and fixed the mess they’d made of his pants. “I’m not putting a shirt on,” he said. “I’ve made my decision and that’s final.”  
  
“Government in action,” said Carl, hiding a yawn behind his hands. “Don’t mind me, I’m going to take a nap on this here bed.”  
  
“Typical.” Hancock twisted his face up in a mock pout. “You never want to cuddle.”  
  
“I did all the work,” Carl complained. “You just lay there and take it.”  
  
“John, now!” said Fahrenheit. “Don’t make me come in there.”  
  
He laughed and kissed Carl. “Duty calls,” he said, sardonically. “Try not to pine too badly while I’m away.”  
  
“If I die from loneliness, I’ll be sure to leave a note.” Carl yawned, and Hancock strode out of the room, an almost-unnoticeable hitch in his walk. Carl grinned to himself as the door snapped shut behind him. _My boyfriend_ , he thought happily. _Mine._


End file.
